Or where his clothes were.
Or his keys.
Or his van.
This was a problem since Henry was both a postman and an alcoholic and could do without his van no more than he could manage without his head. His van was his life, his van was his bond and his van had been full of two days worth of undelivered Christmas post.
This, he knew even through the stew of hangover and spew, was a problem.
Now Henry was a good man and Henry was a kind man and Henry was a drunk man on the verge of being fired but above all of these things, Henry was a postman.
This he knew in his bones.
And if a postman Henry was to remain then it was imperative that he retrieve the tools of his trade and be on his was before the day was out.
Valiantly, Henry tugged the emergency mini-bar bottle of Scotch from his prehistoric pants, bit the top off, took a swig and - as the world swam back into focus - began to wonder where the bloody hell he was.